Dear Son A,

Happy Day: you’re three months old! That means that three months ago, I was telling your father that he should go to work – the contractions weren’t that bad. And then I was IMing your dad that they were a few minutes apart, but he should stay at work. And then IMing your pappy that the doctor’s office confirmed I was in active labor, but I told him I still had time plenty of time even though they said I could (should) come in soon: he logged off two minutes later. After we dropped your brother off at a friend’s house, I told the old man that I neeeeded snacks from Freddies before we went to the hospital. And then that I neeeeeded a Burgerville soda. Which I haven’t had one in years, but when a woman in labor has a need . . . I knew you weren’t coming out: the lease may have been up, but you’re one of those tenants who prefers to linger til the last minute when the eviction crew comes through and throws you out on your cute little patootie which relieved itself all over the eviction folks (i.e. beloved Dr. Tami).

This afternoon I put you in your swing which you are slowly warming up to, only if we sit by and offer encouraging words like “way to swing!” and “what a big boy you are!” – cause man, sitting cute in a swing is tough work. And it’s not like we put you in the swing so we could go do other things: nope, not at all.

So I was offering you encouraging words (and pumping, but I don’t think you noticed my attention was divided), and I noticed something: you grabbed a toy. Most of these newfangled infant toys have an abundance of primary-colored plastic animal-shaped “manipulatives” so that you may be properly over-stimulated and engaging in America’s desire for gross excess at the earliest of ages. Your portable swing has a few hanging toys that make things sing and light up if you pull them: your brother LOVES them (shocking). But you could care less.

Until today. You looked at a hanging orange fish. And you moved your arm. And you grabbed it. It wasn’t a flailing, accidental grab: it was a very calculated move. You let go. And then you went to grab it again: it was almost like a science experiment – can I do this again? Will it feel the same? Is it really these limbs that are grabbing? And am I really in control of them?

It didn’t last long. I exclaimed my amazement at your moves, and your brother had to come and show you how to do it properly (i.e. over and over really fast – he’s going to rock at the bang-the-gopher-heads game at Chuck E. Cheese). But you were okay with that: you had your moment, and another would come again.

It hasn’t necessarily been the easiest of months – I won’t lie. Let’s say an exhausted and stressed mama on pain meds leads to lean pickins in the food department. And you were okay. And okay. And okay. And then NOT OKAY! AND NEVER OKAY AGAIN! I.E. you’d screech with despair at the mere sight of a jubbly because IT’S BROKEN IT DOESN’T WORK AND IT WILL NEVER WORK AGAIN AND I’M GOING TO DIIIIIIEEEEEE!!!!!!!. Which boy howdy does amazing things for the short order cook’s self esteem. But it’s the short order cook’s temperament who you’ve inherited (“I DON’T GET THIS MATH PROBLEM AND I WILL NEVER GET IT AND I’M MOVING TO AFRICA WHERE THEY DON’T CARE ABOUT INTEGRALS!!!!) who inherited it from your look-alike grandparents (THERE’S TERMITES IN THE WELL HOUSE AND THEY’RE GOING TO GET IN THE HOUSE AND THEY’LL RUIN IT AND WE’LL NEVER HAVE ENOUGH MONEY TO SELL AND MOVE !!!!! – they were carpenter ants – heh heh).

But there have been smiles.

And swinging outside.

And cuddles with brudder.

And not-so-cuddles with brudder.

And french fry eating with Dad; dude, you’re going to love chowing down on those things when you’re older.

Maybe that’s what you’re trying to tell me with your yowls: load up on the fried food, woman!

Love, Ma

Little A Adventures, Mama Musings